He Knows Not
by kamikumai
Summary: Draco thinks of inevitabilies, and acknowledges certain truths about himself. Slash: HarryDraco, one-sided.


**Word from the Author:** Well, this is brand spanking new. More or less, give or take a couple of days. I think I was feeling a little disenchanted with the world, love and life when I wrote this. So, in spite of all that, please do try and enjoy this! And don't forget to give the author a little love and affection (only in the form of reviews, thank you...!), if you would be so kind.

**Disclaimer:** If wishes were horses... and horses were the letters "J K R O W L I N and G" then maybe...

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**He Knows Not**

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You think to yourself that you might be a masochist. Or rather, that you are for him. Before him, pain was simply pain, something that you endured to better yourself. Or rather, to make yourself more the Malfoy you were meant to be, more like your father, you mean. You're not so sure anymore that you can ever say it made you better than you once were, you cannot say it with all the blissful ignorance of a child, for you are a child no longer. However, neither are you a man. You're more like a wraith, forever stuck in limbo, limbs struck akimbo, unable to move, and worse yet, unable to make a difference.

Nobody knows of the secret life you live, the secret dreams you dream, nor do they know the secret thoughts that you keep locked up, in head and in heart, from which you'll never part because they're all you're worth now. You keep your masks up and your cards close to your chest, and think to yourself in desperation that it's probably for the best that you will never be known. Never be seen; not the real you, anyway.

All they see is the façade, the smooth veneer, the sharpest sneer you can bequeath unto those who are beneath you; they know not that these are but shards of a personality cultivated in fear. Your father, his master, both your puppeteers. Some of the strings have broken; some of them have been cut. Some of them have tangled, and it is thus that you find yourself in a rut from which you can't get out of, at least not on your own. But that's how you've always been, aloof and alone. You'll never go free. And even if you did, it'd mean not a thing to he who has captured you. Charmed you, disarmed you, and brought you to your knees, metaphorically, because still do you stand before him strong, as you do in this moment, now. You stand and throw words like bombs, in a war you're bound to lose. You could chose to change yourself, but you don't think he'd believe in any of the things you feel. Nor would he comprehend the price you'd pay to leave all that was once everything to you, everything, that is, before him.

You think to yourself perhaps it's best that Malfoys do not love. Because this way, whatever you think you're feeling, it certainly can't be the above. You're unstable, unable to keep on going like this, ad infinitum. You're not even sure how you've made it this far, for all that you are, and all that you're expected to be. You feel sick to the soul, but you suppose that's the toll that you must pay for the purity of your blood. In all honesty, at this point, you'd trade it for mud, if that was all it would take to have him look at you, without the hate that you oft see contorting his face.

You rationalize. He doesn't hate you, he only hates what you stand for, and if you could but change, the world would rearrange itself to give you your heart's desire, him, him, him. He's in your blood, and that's enough to make it feel less tainted. You can't help but sense his innocence that calls to the darkness within you. Your blood burns, it boils, uncoils, lets loose and thrums primal inside you.

One thought passes through your mind, and you ponder upon it this time, 'til you realize how right such a thought does seem. Simply put, you'd drain it all, for him. For him, oh yes, for him. Remove the liquid life, from within your pure white skin. Stain the Earth with it, paint the walls with it, cover him, head to toe, with it, 'til he knows nothing but you. But this you cannot do... If only because you don't think he'd appreciate it.

The taunts are growing stronger now, whispers turn to louder sounds, you're screaming, shouting, howling.

_**Pound.**_

At last, the serpent strikes. And this is why you fight; this is your pleasure, as much as your pain. And with that thought you think again of what he's made of you. You think of all he's turned you into...

You belong to him and him alone.

Though this, he knows not.

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Finis.

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End file.
